you breathe, i shatter, we fall twice as hard
by Unfortunate Fates
Summary: "'I hate you'  It's louder now; her voice is swelling and angry and a little bit desperate because she can't get caught in this position, not with things the way they are" - a collection of drabbles on unsaid feelings and dreams that will never come true.
1. worthless tears worthless heart

**A/N: I feel like most Quick fics out there are heavily based in season 1, but i love their dynamic lately. This is my take on what could happen in a few episodes. **

"I hate you," she hisses, struggling against his grip, "I hate you!" It's louder now, her voice is swelling and angry and a little bit desperate because she can't get caught in this position, not with things the way they are. "Get off of me!" she finally cries, and her nails leave trails of red where they scratch his arm and, in some places, pierce his skin. The blood wells slowly, but his hold from behind her does not yield.

"I'm sorry," he says, broken, because it's all he _can_ say. "I just- I don't know, okay? You were getting crazy about Beth, and you can't deny that Shelby's hot, but it was stupid, it was a stupid thing and I'm sorry." He isn't making any sense, and it just makes her angrier. Doesn't she deserve a better explanation? Isn't she worth something to him? To no one else, maybe, but at least to Puck? She plants her feet more solidly, twists her shoulders with all her might but he won't let her go.

"Is that all you have to say for yourself? After ruining my life?"

"I-"

She doesn't let him finish. "After ruining my life _again_?" she snaps, and she's always this way when she's angry; she's loud and biting and belittling because she's used to doing these things on a daily basis. Tearing people down is like air to her, and she's taking a sweet, deep breath.

"Quinn, just listen to me-"

The thing is, she's always been the only one who could interrupt him. "No! I won't! I'm sick of you taking my heart and shattering into a million pieces because I was stupid enough to think you actually _cared_." Her voice cracks harshly on the last words, and tears are streaming soundlessly down her cheeks. She finally, finally sags against his arms, and he just holds her.

"I care," he tells her fervently, "I do, I swear I do."

"You don't get to do this anymore," she whispers, and he finally lets her go. She turns, looks up at him, shakes her head. "I won't let you."

When he opens his mouth, some small part of her thinks he'll say _fine, okay, I'll leave_, but the majority doesn't believe that, has never believed that. It's never been that easy between them. They've always been gray, always. They're just excellent at playing black-and-white.

"I'm sorry," he finally says, breaking the silence, and that's all.

"I hate you," she whispers one last time before walking away from him, the tear-filled sound covering the empty air. She swipes angrily at her cheeks and vows, then and there, to never give her heart away again.

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	2. a long way to fall

**A/N: If Quinn Fabray was a drug I'd be addicted. Another introspective glance at motives, choices, and shattered dreams.**

A skirt that swishes gently can be as deadly as a loaded gun if you know how to use it. A tight ponytail, sharp eyes, a fierce wit and biting tone: all attributes any Queen Bee must possess, all attributes Quinn possesses, all things she wishes she could learn to live without. _One day_, she promises herself, _one day I'll find my Prince Charming and I'll let my hair down and wear all the sundresses I want. Someday._

And she'll never tell anyone but she's had her wedding planned for years, all golden light and pristine crystal and elegance and sunshine. She deserves happiness, doesn't she? She deserves everything.

Her life goes according to plan until Sophomore year, when everything crashes down with a speed and efficiency that rivals every insult she's ever shot at those unlucky enough to deserve them. This Prince Charming is too good for her, too kind and nice and accepting. There's no fire, no passion, and call her a hopeless romantic (or don't, really) but she feels empty and she knows somewhere that _I guess I love you too_ isn't good enough. She shifts her focus, finds someone a little more dangerous, and drops Finn without looking back.

There's something new coursing through her veins now, keeping momentum with the thick hot pound of blood as it rushes through her ears. This boy is anything but a prince, he's anything but charming, and every time her eyes flutter shut she can feel his smirk as it teases his lips. He doesn't act as if she's a bird, fragile and delicate and mysterious. He isn't afraid of breaking her, and maybe that's what she's always needed: someone who could stand up to her. He doesn't pull out her chair and he doesn't hold open her door. She finds him…interesting, at first, interesting and strange and different and a little bit terrifying. (She isn't scared, though. He's never scared her.) She's heard the stories, she isn't stupid; she won't let herself get involved with him before absolutely making sure that Ken Doll Boyfriend will never be the guy she dreams about.

Funnily enough, she isn't completely sure about anything until after their moment passes. She decides _yes, I love him, I do,_ but he's gone now with some overweight Twilight freak, and she'd try to win him back but the creeping thoughts come back and _what if I fail_? She can't lose to that. She can't. So she goes with what's easy. Now that she's absolutely sure she doesn't want Finn, she needs him. She gets him.

And then.

Losing doesn't come naturally when your skirt swishes gently and your hair is tied up tight. "Once a Cheerio always a Cheerio," explains Santana on one of her rare almost-emotional days, and Quinn's never been so scared in her life.

Beth is gone. Puck is gone. Sam is gone. Hell, even Finn is unattainable. Quinn's never felt so worthless, so hated, so sad and lost and ostracized. No one cares, though. Not anymore. She lost her chance a long time ago, when a whispered _I love you_ was the closest she could ever get to the real thing.

The bottom is a long way to fall from the top.

**Review?**


	3. appearances are half the battle

**A/N: There will be more Quick, I promise, but this has been sitting in my head for ages. It's short, yes, but I've always loved the extra dimensions to Quinn we get in canon. I'd just like to send a shoutout to everyone who reviewed: you're all lovey, beautiful people and I hope you continue to enjoy what I can only describe as erratic, spontaneous bursts of inspiration that are mainly fueled by lack of sleep.**

She fingers the dainty cross sitting around her neck, barely even noticing its weight in the hollow between her shoulders.

"_Surprise! You can use this as an outward symbol of your faith, Quinn darling. Isn't it beautiful?"_

As it glints in the light, she glares at a freshman unlucky enough to get in her way. "Move," she snarls, and the scrawny girl is quick to do so. She practically shakes, and Quinn rolls her eyes.

"_It's pretty. I love it."_

Eyes draw to the necklace naturally when she walks – of this she's aware. It may seem like a conflicting image, but Quinn's a complex girl. Taken at face value, she's nothing. Look inside, you'll find everything.

She'd never tell anyone, but she's always wished that someone would look inside. Someone besides _him_.

"_I think you should wear it to that event on Sunday night. Don't you think it would look stunning with that sweet white dress from the wedding?"_

Her skirt swishes behind her, ponytail flying like a banner for every girl who's ever been lucky enough to be where Quinn is now. When she sits on the curb at lunch, any passerby could easily confuse it for a throne.

"_I'll wear it every day. Starting now_._"_

"Where did you get your necklace?" an envious Cheerio had asked her one day.

"It's one of a kind," she'd scoffed, adding extra condescension to make up for the fact that she actually has no idea. _It was a gift_, ring the words inside her head, but Quinn was never one for charity.

"_How did I get so lucky with such a lovely daughter?"_

Sometimes, she says things because they're expected of her.

"_I think I'm the lucky one to have a mom like you."_

Occasionally, she means the things she says. The sad part is, she's stopped learning to tell the difference.

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	4. no light, no light

**A/N: because i can't write anything fluffy. ever. enjoy some Quick angst. related: the more i write her and get into her head, the more i feel for Quinn. doesn't she deserve a break?**

**title from Florence + the Machine's gorgeous song**

When Quinn's alone, sometimes she feels like she's drowning, like no one cares or could care less about her. Like every lungful is swallowing water that burns as it goes down; like a dream where you can't run but you can hide. It hurts to be unloved, to feel hated all the time, but when you're a Queen Bee you have to get used to being alone everywhere. It's always, "Come on, Q," or, "she's so pretty," or even, "move it, Fabray." She's hardly ever recognized as _Quinn_, she thinks, and takes in another shaking breath.

When she's comfortable, though, whether it be with the Cheerios or shopping or singing or dancing (or maybe, maybe even when she's with a certain someone who is _not_ on her mind right now), she feels like she can breathe. Great, gulping lung-fuls of air that pass through her veins like liquid.

She should be meeting him now, should be stepping out of her car five minutes late (because she can't get there first, can she?) and shooting him a smile so dazzling it makes his knees weak. It's seven o clock and the sun is low, low, low in the summer sky. She should be wearing a sundress, her favorite one, and a pair of wedge heels that make her legs look a mile long. This night should be perfect, should be everything she ever dreamed it would. They were supposed to fall in love again tonight, for better or for worse, and they were supposed to be happy. (It's all she's ever wanted, to be happy).

_Sometimes things just don't work out_, she tells herself fervently, _this was never supposed to work out._ Because this second, she's sitting in her room with the door locked in a pair of ratty gray sweatpants with her hair in a bun, and she's wearing a sweater from some random college she'll never apply to because it's always been Georgetown for her and she's _disgusted_ with herself, disgusted- she takes a deep breath that catches in her throat and tries to calm down. She won't meet him tonight, she won't. She can't just sit and watch while he breaks her heart, even as she does it time and time again to the only guy she's ever really given it to. He's stronger than she is, braver than she is. She hates herself right now, truly and deeply, for doing this to him.

She isn't deluded enough to think it's for the best. It just is.

_? U gonna be late? _asks the first text, and she has enough sense to shut off her phone and hide it beneath her pillow before she bursts into messy, unpracticed tears. She isn't typically a crier, but she knows she's a pretty one. Tears can be used as an advantage.

Now, though? They're mortifying, frustrating, ripping from her throat until they hurt with no signs of slowing down. Drowning. The house is empty tonight, her mom gone on some real estate tour for the company, and Quinn's never felt so lonely.

She's drowning now, shutting her eyes and it's half past ten; the stars are shining too brightly and it's too warm, shouldn't it be cold? She feels cold.

_I'm sorry,_ she thinks disjointedly, and curls in on herself. She'll come to regret this moment, come to regret sitting on her bed and pitying herself while he lays himself out (again) to be picked apart. She's doing that now, killing him, and she can't avoid it if she's going to stay safe. She'll hurt and she'll cry a little more and then she won't. She'll move on.

And through all of this, there is one simple, undeniable truth: Quinn Fabray just made the best decision of her life.

**review?**


	5. it's a pity

**A/N: More scenes that could feasibly happen within the course of the season but probably won't. This one could fit anywhere after episode three, and involves a Klaine!intervention. Hopefully you enjoy their dynamic as much as I do! :)**

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize.**

"Quinn, are you in here?" comes Blaine's voice, and she shuts her eyes tightly before answering.

"Are you here to tell me how to live my life, too? Because if you are, you might as well just leave. And this is the girl's bathroom, in case you hadn't noticed." There's venom in her voice now, defensive and ruthless as she tries to hold on to her dignity.

"Sweetie, we're gay," says Kurt, "this is as much our turf as it is yours. And we're not here to tell you what to do."

"We're here to talk," finishes Blaine, and she rolls her eyes at how vague that term is. _Talk._ Ever since Puck decided to be noble and rally the Glee club to help her out, she's been bombarded by people who _just want to help, really, we care about you too much to let you go through this alone._

_Third stall_, she nearly grits out, but changes her mind at the last second and pushes open the door. Her pink skirt (she hates it, hates pretending to be something she never wanted to be) flows out delicately behind her like some sad parody of her old self. It's less of an outfit and more of a costume, she thinks as she looks at herself in the bathroom mirror for the first time in a long while. She barely recognizes herself after that long summer.

"Say what you came to, then," she hears herself demand angrily, but it's like she's speaking from the opposite end of a tunnel.

"All right," at this point Kurt looks meaningfully at Blaine, who picks up smoothly, "we just want you to be happy. I haven't known you for very long, so excuse me if I'm overstepping, but I've heard a lot of your history from Kurt. You've had it rough, it doesn't matter what anyone says. You deserve that happy ending more than anyone."

He's nothing if not earnest, Quinn notices as she twirls a strand of hair absentmindedly around her finger, but she still feels hollow. She frowns when it isn't long enough to continue twisting.

"Is there anything we can do for _you_?" asks Kurt gently.

_Is_ there anything they can do? She turns the question over in her head a few times. It's the first time she's heard anything even remotely resembling it. She thinks of a girl with a cigarette dangling between her lips and the darkest of sunglasses contrasting razor-sharp pink streaks. They could've done something for her, she decides, but who is she now? She thinks back farther, back to hair that brushed her shoulders and sundresses and wedge heels and _innocence_ (she was only sixteen, just a kid, really) and all of the drama and pain and reorienting of her axes. They could've done something for her, too.

She softens then, and smiles at them through the mirror. "Thank you," she says, instead of answering their question, "I don't think I could've handled any more pity."

"You could never handle pity," smiles Kurt, and she laughs a little, remembering.

"I never wanted any," she reminds him, "People were just…annoying."

And they're fully laughing now, thinking of Rachel and her weird cookies and Mercedes with her soulful ballad and Brittany with her sage advice. This isn't nice, no, but it's fun and distracting, and Quinn and Kurt have never been known for their sugarcoating. Blaine just laughs along with them, and the look in his eyes is clearly reserved for Kurt.

_Pride_, she identifies it as, and wishes the last time she saw it hadn't been in Puck's eyes when she'd shed the last traces of Skank and tried a new look on for size.

_I'm proud of you_, he'd said. But she'd never given him a chance.

**Review?**

**also: I have a tumblr! it's pretty much dedicated to Glee, so come find me at abrokenkindofperfect if you have one, too! I love meeting my readers :)**


	6. take all of me

**A/N: wrote this fast and furious, so please excuse any grammar/spelling errors or gaping holes in logic. I just really needed to get it off my chest, if you know the feeling.**

**As always, my tumblr is abrokenkindofperfect, so look me up there. I love to talk, and I take prompts for drabbles (some of which end up over here if I like them and they're relevant/long enough!)**

**Disclaimer: If you recognize it, it isn't mine.**

...

She's sitting in her room on her plush white carpet, cross-legged oblivious to the world around her, when she finally crumbles. She couldn't tell you what happens; she'd just try (and fail) to explain a ripping in her chest, an indisputable knowledge that comes as suddenly as the torrents of rain as they pound against her roof. Her life has been all guesswork thus far, a try-try-try philosophy that has gotten her into the deepest trouble she could ever imagine. It works. This, though. This is new. She's familiar with tears, certainly (_too familiar, certainly_), but not the loud, heart-wrenching sobs spilling from her lips.

_Stop it, _she thinks, _stop. You're Quinn Fabray. You're above this, you're better- _'IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou-'

She can't help but shut her eyes tightly and try to hold on to some shred of sanity while her everything falls down around her.

The rain pours, her heart stutters, and the world spins madly on.

…

She's a girl with too much to say and not nearly enough audacity to say it.

She loves him, and he's _killing _her on the inside, but she doesn't know how to make sense of any of it in her head when he turns to her and asks, "Can you keep a secret?"

…

She can. She's been keeping one for a long time.

_She's loved him ever since that first night shhhhhhhh._

She won't tell. She'd never tell. She can't tell.

(She wants to tell.

She won't.)

…

She's in her room, door locked tightly even though she's home alone (as usual), and she swears her sobs must be rocking the very foundations she's standing upon. It's as if she's stepping out and finding empty air where there should be stone. It's as if nothing is real anymore because he was her everything. She's left with nothing.

"I love you," he'd whispered, and she'd turned over, pretended to be asleep because that was the easy way out. He hadn't reacted, instead sighing contentedly and resting his hands behind hers, close enough to touch but not quite doing so, as if he'd expected that reaction all along.

…

She'd cried herself to sleep that night.

Another secret she'll never tell.

…

Sometimes she smiles at him, sweet and sly like she knows something he doesn't. His gaze then is deep enough to fill her, deep enough to make her wonder exactly how she ever thought he could be as dumb as a rock. He's observant and perceptive and quick to make connections with a heaping side of lazy and lack of judgment.

It shouldn't be appealing to her, this mix of attributes she never wanted in a guy.

He'll never give her a picket fence or a four-door passenger vehicle with cruise control and automatic windows; he'll never live up to the standards she's been subconsciously setting for years. He'll never be that guy she was trying to make herself perfect for.

He loves _Quinn, person_ as opposed to _Quinn Fabray, captain of the Cheerios devoted to God attends banquets loves kittens dresses perfectly size two blonde supermodel._

He's not what she's been asking for her whole life. She's far from that girl when she's around him, smiles too big and showing her bottom teeth (she _hates_ her bottom teeth), and some days she thinks he likes her better broken. In all honesty, that might be okay.

...

His whispers burn her flesh, fighting her mind and the little pieces of resistance within her until she's drained, exhausted, too weak to put up a decent opposition. He takes her heart and her eyes and her lips and her everything (_everything_). He breaks down her walls one by one (and he doesn't do it gently) until there's nothing there but her soul, bare and naked and vulnerable.

And then he takes that, too.

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	7. like i'm living underwater

**It was supposed to be set after the last episode, but it could be anywhere this season, really.**

It doesn't matter how she got to his house; relationships are relationships and no matter what labels people stick on them this one will always be different. He doesn't question it when she asks for a ride. She walks to school every day from the bus stop, because as a Skank she'd always secretly found smoking by herself as she strolls across the sidewalk to be edgy and dangerous and okay, maybe romantic, but only a little bit. It's the image, really, of the cigarette stub burning beneath a black leather boot that brings to mind images of Paris and darkness and dripping red blood and _Do you want me to just take the bus?_ she asks, looking at him with those wide eyes that so many people had called crazy and deranged and insane. He just sighs, shoves his hands in his pockets, and tells her to get in the car.

He pumps up the bass and she remains silent, both of them too hyped up on adrenaline and shaking (and no, it's not just the adrenaline, but neither of them will admit to that). The beats pound through her chest and she shuts her eyes, not sure of whom she'll be when she opens them. This could be anyone, could be the girl that needed her daddy or the girl who used his image as a reason to move forward when she was afraid, as a reason to shed her old self and embrace someone deadly and sharp around the edges and all the more broken for it. She feels the need to say something suddenly, feels the air in the car slowly drain until she feels like she'll drown if she doesn't release some bit of steam, some bit of the pressure that's building in her chest.

She wants to tell him she hates him and she wants to tell him she loves him. Instead, she just reaches out and turns down the volume until she can hear herself think. "You were great today," she half-yells, and he just nods.

"We were all great. Those Troubletones didn't have a fat chance in hell at winning." She wants to wince at his language (and maybe the old her would have), but after being exposed to so much so fast she feels desensitized in a way. Like she's been walking through water all the time.

They don't talk. Filling silences is for people who want to impress each other, who care about impressing each other. These aren't those people. This is Puck and this is Quinn. This is a boy who's lost but he knows where he wants to go. This is a girl who's been broken so many times she isn't even sure she wants to be put back together again. This is a couple, a partnership, a mutual hatred, a love. This could be everything and it could be nothing. Listen to the silence, for it speaks louder than their words ever could. They're tricky like this. They're tricky.

When they pull up to his house she just breathes, the familiar scent of his mother's little garden by the front porch enough to bring her back to simpler, more complicated times. They walk in without preamble; he doesn't get the door for her, doesn't ask if she'd like anything to drink. He's not the Ken to her Barbie. He's not the prince she's always dreamed of, and thank God. She needs someone like him in her life, someone who's not afraid to tell her she's beautiful or kiss her when she's in the middle of saying something. He might be out of her comfort zone and her social circle and below her old, misguided set list of standards, but all she can think about when she curls up next to him on the couch is how they both love CSI and how that _has_ to mean something, right? She's comfortable here, she's warm and happy and safe (he's safe, he's always been safe) and she's happier than she's been in a long time.

**Review? This bit is part 1/2, so if people show any interest I'll post the next part, too. If not. Well. Yeah.**

**This (and all other parts) are also posted on my tumblr (abrokenkinfodperfect). I take prompts as well, some of which end up over here. Feel free to befriend me! I love people! :D**


	8. madly on

**A/N: Look! I'm alive! If you follow me on tumblr, you might've read this already, but here is the long (long) awaited part two of the previous drabble (like i'm living underwater). chapter 7 of this fic, if you'd like to go read that first. It ended up a lot longer than I thought it would, and the piece (parts 1 and 2) are cohesively titled 'Adrenaline.' I hope you enjoy :)**

...

They're settled on that tattered brown couch, the one weighed down with memories she can't be bothered to remember. It brings an ache deep into her chest, and she thinks she's experienced enough pain in the last few years so she simply lies there and breathes, watching some awful documentary about a washed-up celebrity and idly sipping tap water from a plastic cup. This hurts, hurts too much, but there's honestly nowhere she'd rather be than here: where the sun is too hot on her skin through the glass window and the clouds dip so low they're a haze. It's stunning, this, but it's also tired, dry, sluggish.

It feels like the older days, when things were simple and they sky was still a blinding bright blue. Of course, nothing is the same now, least of all her, but occasionally it's more convenient to live some truths and ignore others. This is one of those times. She'd talk, but there's a fragile tension now, thin as glass, that crept up when they weren't looking. Her words get lost in her throat.

…

She doesn't really say goodbye. The clock just ticks and ticks and ticks until she can't stand the time passing anymore, and she peeks at the door every so often. The glances get more and more frequent, and soon enough she's pretty much staring, eyes wide with longing and longing and guilt at the longing. He pretends not to notice.

They've always been good at this, this pretending. They know how to fight their instincts and minds and hearts. They've done it countless times before; why can't it work now?

She stays for dinner, then leaves, all the while wondering why today had to hurt so much.

…

They're too young for this.

It's one reason on a list of many, but it has to matter, right? She's been told her entire life that age matters, but the line between right and wrong has been blurring lately, so she tries to relax and think about it rationally. She fails. They're both still in high school, for crying out loud. It's their last year, it's easier, she's already been accepted into her top college. Why, then, are things suddenly so compliacted?

She already has a plan to get out of this place. Go to Georgetown. Dye her hair back the way it used to be, because while she likes the edge of the pink it won't fly in college. Meet a guy (a smart one, one that has 'made something of himself'), get married, have kids, get a nice house with a picket fence, and settle down.

It used to be the thing that drove her, that propelled her forward, but now she doesn't know. It doesn't seem so appealing now that she knows how to _live_. She loves the way her heart beats into her throat. She loves the way the night seemed to sparkle so long ago. She loves yelling and crying and fighting and kissing and the feeling of midnight and dreaming. She loves that there's more to life than offices and coffee and Suburbans with four-wheel drive.

She loves that her plan isn't the only option out there, but she hates that it feels like it is. She hates that she has to 'make something of herself.' She hates that people tell her it's not okay to want something a little sharper around the edges.

Later on, she'll be able to pinpoint this as the exact moment Mr. Made Something of Himself began to fade and Mr. Takes Her for Who She Is took his place and more.

…

They're in his car this time, because it's not as if she has her own anymore, not after the Disaster of Sophomore Year (and no, she's not going to talk about it). He's been giving her rides from school more and more frequently, and half the time they end up going nowhere at all, just reveling in the charged silence on some beaten path that stretches before them like a carpet. Maybe she was always meant to be here. Maybe not. But either way, she's not letting it go. Living like this hurts, but at least she _feels_, you know? She hates being numb, hates feeling like there's nothing left for her.

At least this way she can surprise herself every once in a while.

"You're still going to Georgetown?" he asks, the same way he always does.

She nods. There's no use in breaking from the script, now is there? She's going to Georgetown and that's final, because she's worked way too hard to get in to just throw it all away. She wants to Make Something of Herself.

"Ask me if I still _want_ to go to Georgetown," she asks then, script thrown out the window in a sudden fit of spontaneity. She doesn't know what she's doing, but she knows it's right. She needs him to ask her, because she isn't quite sure anymore, and he's the only one who could change her mind. She thinks she might want him to change her mind.

"What?" His tone is light, but his brows are furrowed deeply as if he can't believe what she just said.

"Well, ask me," she pushes.

"Do you, then?"

Things slow down for a moment. The future, the past, the present. Right. Now. Everything could change right now. She could mess up her entire life. Or she could save it. Things slow down, then things speed up and she's saying _no_ with a little laugh tacked onto the end of it and she feels like she can finally _breathe_. "No," she says again, "I don't. I don't."

His eyes are wide, but he's still looking straight ahead. If he turns to look at her, this becomes real. He becomes a reason, a part of her detirioration into something a little bit crazy.

Usually, she'd agree. She'd will him not to turn in her head and be relieved (if a little disappointed) when he didn't. Today, though, today is different. It's a day of firsts, of insanity, of turning her universe on its head. There's a chant going on in her mind now, and it goes something like this: _look at me look at me look at me lookatmelookatmelooklooklook _

He turns, their eyes connect a little too sharply, and something like optimism seeps into her veins.

Her mind is made, and the world spins madly on.

...

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	9. shatter

Her name used to fall like water from his lips, but you know what they say.

Blood always runs thicker.

…

"Listen," he used to start every time. He doesn't know why, to be honest, because with every shaking breath he _knew_ she was listening. _Listen to me, please, hear what I'm saying because I want it to matter._ He couldn't help himself. He was selfish with her.

"I'm listening," she used to reply impatiently, foot tapping, hands on her hips, eyes flashing dangerously when he waited before continuing.

He just wanted to make sure he had her attention. She's easily distracted by pretty things.

It's a shame, then, that he is, too.

…

Some days she just wants to light a match, throw it on her past, and watch it burn. Some days she doesn't. Some days she feels like a grenade, like a live wire, like if anyone touched her she'd just explode and kill them all.

And wouldn't that be lovely?

Going out in a blaze of glory like some twisted parody of a firework. Falling deeper, and deeper, until the only way out seems to be black and mild versions of once-fiery embers. Cutting away her shell until she finds something within that wasn't what she expected, and maybe was never in there after all.

…

Oh, wait.

…

Her hair is pink, and while he kind of thinks it's hot secretly he thinks that he doesn't recognize her at all. Because that blonde hair used to be an integral _part _of her.

Like how whenever she was stressed she'd pull it into a crazy tight ponytail, so high on her head that it practically fell forward. It was always an indicator of her mood. Straight down, she's feeling tired, usually, or very very happy. The higher the pony the scarier it is, and on those days, when she was really _that _stressed, he was the only one willing to talk to her. She blew up in his face every time. Sometimes he fought back, got in her face and yelled and then held her when she cried. Usually, he just stood there and took it.

Now, though, razor-cut and sharp and maybe pulled back into a bouffant, he doesn't know who this girl is anymore. She starts crying and he gets surprised, damn it, because that isn't a bun or ponytail, it's not.

He knows it's stupid, okay. Shut up.

…

The boy who waits.

It's what they should call him, he thinks, because that's all he ever does anyways. She slips away and he's too scared to go and chase her, so he waits until she decides to come back again. It's never long.

She's in constant movement, fluttering and wavering and even when she stands her ground she finds a way to _be,_ and robustly so.

You can't ignore her, not while she's in motion; inertia keeps your attention on her and only her and she knows that, fundamentally, she must.

…

The girl who runs, then.

Sure, let's go with that.

…

When he touches her, she lights up like a torch and promises she hates him.

"Sure you do," he replies easily, and she just gets angrier. He understands the feeling. They might not be perfect (and really, they're not, they never have been and they never will be), but maybe that's part of the appeal.

She always thought he liked her better broken.


End file.
